"They're coming in?"

"Looks it... yes, both of them. I'm on my way. Time to open a can of whump-ass and have ourselves a party."

Parking prominently in front of the ruins of the house, Richard quickly stripped off his blue uniform shirt. Beneath, he wore a lightweight black knit pullover, long sleeved, loose for Keyes, who had loaned it, almost too tight on Richard. His gray pants were gaudy in comparison, but would have to serve. He planned to keep his head down. Most of the time.

He left the car, the Glock in one pocket, spare clips in the other, the revolver in his belt.

The stink of burned wood was yet heavy in the air. Richard went to the debris, found a charcoaled stick and smeared the black powder over his face and hands. The full moon would make enough light to be useful to the hunters; he wanted to break up his profile.

Speaking of breaking up...

He located a sizable piece of wood thrown from the house, a section of charred log almost four feet long, as big around as a telephone pole. The weight was nothing to him, only a little unwieldy. He was more interested in mass than grace, though, and tucked it under one arm like an overgrown football, then looked for some likely cover.

He heard them coming. Saw the nimbus of their headlights.

He dropped flat by the fence next to the barn. Debris was all around him; he was just another unidentifiable lump.

Their focus would be on his car. He'd left the lights on, aimed at the ruin as though he'd come here to scavenge for clues the police had missed. Crime scene tape ringed the area.

Before the first car topped the rise, the driver cut its lights and coasted the rest of the way, coming in slowly. The second car did the same.

When the first was within thirty feet of him, Richard surged up and charged right at it, holding the log like a latter- day battering ram. He could move preternaturally fast when necessary.

The driver had no time to react. He also likely never knew what hit him when Richard slammed the log directly into the windshield. It struck with terrible force, shattering the glass, breaking the wheel, smashing the driver's head to bloody pulp and taking out the man immediately behind him.

Richard didn't pause to look back, but flashed toward the second vehicle, which was just beginning to brake. The driver's side window was up. No matter. Richard put his fist through it. That hurt, but he hit the man inside so hard on his temple as to cave in the bone and snap his neck. Richard grabbed the steering wheel and ripped it from its column.

Someone fired shots, but missed wildly, the bullets tearing into the roof, not Richard... who was gone.

He darted behind the second Caddie-which rolled on to collide into the first-dropping to cover in the mesquite brush a mere ten yards away. Both vehicles were disabled, cutting off retreat, and the odds were now seven to two.

He phoned Keyes with the news.

"The hell you say," he whispered, approving. "Were those your shots?"

"No. Knee-jerk reaction. He missed. I'm clear for the moment."

"A three-round burst. I think I was right on the MP-5s. They're gonna burn ammo trying to find you now-they can afford to. See if you can spot how many and who's got what."

But Richard had to duck as men erupted from the cars, firing recklessly into the brush. They were cursing, screaming at each other, disorganized. The ghastly nature of his attack had had its effect on their morale, all of it in his favor, providing he avoided getting hit.

They seemed to run out of ammunition at the same time, having quickly burned through their thirty-round magazines. Richard, flat on his belly, picked his shot and dropped one, then rolled like hell to his right. His Glock had no flash suppressor. Sure enough, one of them had a round left. The bullet cracked into the spot where he'd been, kicking up earth and gravel. On all fours he backed away a few yards, then rose slightly for a look.

A tinny voice in the cell phone asked if he was all right.

"Four down, six left. Three have heavy power. I'm a bit busy, can I call you back?" Without waiting for an answer, he shut it off.

Of the six remaining thugs, two were still in the cars, the rest were starting to scatter out, yelling at each other and randomly shooting into the night. One of them was having trouble reloading his gun. He couldn't get the long magazine to lock in.

His bad luck. Richard took him out, rising up briefly, sighting down his arm like a duelist, then dropping to roll away.

That got the rest started again. They swung in his direction, throwing three-round bursts as fast as they could work the triggers, their aim random and wild. He made friends with the earth once more, deciding that the fabric of his shirt was entirely too thick, as it kept him much too far above the ground. He winced and grunted-something suddenly burning sharp over the back of one calf, something else scorched his shoulder blade, gouging flesh. They were getting close...

Then from the second car he heard Alejandro screaming over the shots, calling for them to cease. He cursed them and told them to come back. They did-when they ran out of bullets.

Richard sagged, then checked his leg. Just a long scratch. His shoulder was about the same. He owed Keyes a new shirt.

Right. Three gunmen left, Alejandro and another man in a wrecked car, not daring to get out, unable to move.

One more gun fell. There was no sound of a shot, though. Keyes had gone to work, it seemed. This had a predictable effect on the others. They'd reloaded, firing in Richard's direction since that was the last place a threat had come from, but he'd rolled again. He reached the pump house.

Keyes must have opted for a silencer. It would throw off his accuracy, but if he got in close enough, that wouldn't matter.

Another man dropped with a gasp and sigh. One left standing, two in the car.

Alejandro was shouting again.

Shouting Richard's name.

Shouting Michael's name.

Shouting an utter impossibility.

"I have the boy!" he bellowed. "You stop or I'll blow his head off!"

The last man stared nervously about to see if this would work. It was Nick Anton, looking grim and afraid.

"Come out in the open or Michael dies," Alejandro continued. "This I promise. Come out or he dies!"

"Boss..." began Anton.

"Shutup!"

Ten seconds went by; no one moved.

"You think I don't have him?"

Richard prayed he did not. To no avail. Alejandro thrust the child from the car. Anton grabbed him up, holding him to his massive chest with one hand, his MP-5 in the other, braced on his hip and pointing outward.

"Come out, Dun!" Alejandro ordered. "You and your friend come out now!" Alejandro lurched from the cover of the car, the muzzle of his pistol against Michael's head. The boy was awake, face expressionless to the nightmare around him.

Richard groaned. Please Goddess, not again. Don't take him again.

"Now! I'm counting to five! One, two..."

No choice. "All right! I'm over here! Don't shoot!"

Futile hope. Of course he would shoot. Any time he wanted. He owned Richard.

As soon as he rose from cover, Anton's gun swung his way.

"Drop your gun, come forward," Alejandro ordered.

He obeyed, furiously hoping Keyes would be smart about things and hold back. "That's it, come forward, you son of a bitch."

He was full in the first car's headlights. One corner of the car had plowed into the back of his rental, the motor in gear and still running, a hideous mess behind the broken wheel. He could smell the fresh blood.

Alejandro glared at Richard. "How many lives you got anyway, you fucker? Bomb don't get you, knife don't get you, goddamn fancy bow-and-goddamn-arrow don't get you-how you gonna do with a bullet?"

He made no answer, his gaze on Michael. "Go ahead and finish it, Trujillo, but let the boy go."

"I'll finish it, but he ain't gonna go."

"He's a child, he can't hurt you. He's your family. Your own blood."

"Hah! He's a son of a bitch and bastard, no blood of ours!"

This did not come from Alejandro... it was from Luis, who emerged from the back of the second car.

Richard stared. Forgot how to breathe.

"You think I never knew?" Luis demanded, voice shrill. "You ever think that?"

The world lurched. Somehow Richard stayed on his feet. "What?"

"You goddamn bastard! I knew! I knew!"

A portion of the veil tore away. Not nearly enough. Behind the rest... Richard did not want to go there.

Luis stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Alejandro. They looked much alike, their unity of face and stance tearing away more veil.

"You worked with him," said Richard. "You worked with each other."

"He's just getting it." Alejandro laughed once. "We always did. When the bust came, we decided Luis should play the poor victim of his big bad brother."

"You arranged the betrayal?"

"It worked good. All the stuff he gave the cops knocked out a lotta my competition and kept him outta jail. It worked real good. I make some noise so they think I'm hurting. Meantime, I'm cleaning up."

"Luis? Your own family...?" No, that wasn't possible. Could not be.

Luis broke away, coming toward him, face mottled, ugly. "Not mine, you bastard! Yours! They were always yours!" He swung hard, fist cracking against Richard's face.

He felt nothing. His heart banged painfully. No... it's too grotesque.

"You were fucking that bitch behind my back every chance you got, the two of you passing off the bastards as mine. How stupid did you think I could be? Richard the big protector, the big, generous guardian angel, goddamn fucking Uncle Richard..."

Invective poured from Luis. He had years of it stored up. Bitter, vicious, obscene in its force, monstrous in its concept.

This can't be. "No." He shook his head. "Oh, God, no..."

Luis, the patient, kind, family man, loving husband, Luis the murdering butcher. In his mind Richard saw once more through Michael's eyes, saw the truth the boy had blocked out. The man who had cut them all down and then turned his gun on...

Adios to you too, you little bastard.

Not just profanity, but a statement of fact. As Luis mistakenly perceived it.

"No."

"Oh, yeah. Time to finally pay, big man. Had to wait to set it up-"

"You were the one who called me down here, not Stephanie."

"Yeah, I got the place all ready for you. You go in, find them, see what you made for yourself, then boom!"

Only Richard had survived. He'd been the target all along. He shut his eyes.

"How's it feel? You hate me? Hate yourself more-you made it happen. It's all on your head!" Luis gut-punched him until Richard fell to his knees.

"You fool," he whispered. "There's no hell low enough for you."

"You'll be the one in hell, burning with that lying bitch."

"She loved you! Don't you get it?"

"Loved me? She fucked you, and passed off those-"

"Your children! Your daughters, your son! Not mine!"

"Goddamn liar-both of you lying for years. Who do they look like? They don't look like me, and never did, so don't lie anymore! You lie again and I'll blow the little shit's head off, you hear me?" He was screaming, shrieking down at Richard, hitting, kicking, frenzied.

Richard lay on his side, tasting dust. He felt no physical pain. Only loss, boundless, abominable loss...

Luis stood over him, chest heaving, insanity in his staring eyes. He backed off a step, then another, until he was next to Alejandro again. "Gonna finish it now. Nick-gimme that knife of yours."

"What for?"

"What you think?"

"We got no time for that; Keyes is out there still. Tell him, Mr. Trujillo. He's got a bead on us all right now, I know it. Only thing keeping him shut is this kid. He's crazy about those damn cats, so this kid will hold him off. It's our only way out."

Alejandro nodded, looking into the darkness. He still held the gun to Michael's head. "Mr. Keyes? We know you are there. This is not a matter to do with you. If you just leave, we will let the matter that is between us drop. I will match your last earnings with me and put half again as much on top as a bonus if you just walk away."

Silence.

Richard slowly pushed himself up, listening for a sign.

It came when Keyes called from somewhere to the side. "Double it, Trujillo! Double it and you leave me the hell alone forever."